


just old light

by ouijaboy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Genderbending, Haircuts, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:43:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ouijaboy/pseuds/ouijaboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story that's been sitting on my computer for a very long time - a bit rough and unedited, but i hope people enjoy</p>
<p>Rule 63 au - Enjolras asks Grantaire to cut her hair the day before the revolution.</p>
<p>“And you trust me?” you whisper into the silence, terrified of the answer.  For a while the only sound is the soft flickering of the candle flame.</p>
<p>“Yes.” She replies, her voice piercing in the quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just old light

**Author's Note:**

> This story is probably a bit rough, I've been meaning to finish it off for ages but I never have the time (so it's missing a good chunk in the middle oops)I haven't really edited it, just wrote an ending to finish it off but this idea had been sitting in my head for god know how long andits overused and this is my first les mis fic ack im really nervous sorry enjoy!

She’s a terrifying kind of beautiful when she’s like this, words of equality and justice pouring out of her mouth. Her voice is strong, clear as a bell and sharp as a knife. She stands on the makeshift platform, towering like a goddess.  
Her golden curls hang loose, scattered around her head and set alight by the sun like a halo of fire. Like a blazing constellation. She is a vengeful angel and the mortals below her cower in wonderment and reverence. Even the men are still, entranced by her fire.

She may be just a woman, but they are mere mortals. Terminally human, disastrously basic. She shines, Artemis the huntress, dangerous and brilliant. You can’t help but stare, to bask and let her flame warm your heart and skin. For a moment her eyes flash to yours and your breath catches sharp in your throat. But then she looks away, voice climbing in volume as she continues to command the attention of all in the crowd.

**** 

She seems so quiet now, so tired. Your goddess looks incredibly mortal from where she is perched on the straw bed. The trousers are too long; she’s rolled the cuffs up. Her coat would be a bright red, but here in the dim flickering light of the lamp, it’s softened.

“Grantaire-“ she says, her tone friendly, casual. As if you hadn’t just screamed at each other a few hours ago. She tucks a wheaten strand behind one ear and looks at you with those blue, blue eyes. You had been to the ocean just once, when you were a very little girl. Her eyes remind you of the waves. Impossibly blue-green and deep. She is leaning off the edge the bed, and you swear you can feel your heart ready to burst out of your chest. “-Will you do me a favor?”

You nod slowly, throat too tight for any words. She could’ve asked you for anything like this, human and lovely, and you would’ve obeyed without hesitation. She leans back and reaches into her bedside drawer. Everything is moving so slow.  
She holds a pair of silver scissors to you. Shearing scissors, like the ones Jehan uses in her needlework. Unnecessarily ornate, slightly blunt. You are confused.

“Will you cut my hair for me?” he voice is like honey as she presses the scissors, shining like moonlight, into your hand. Your fingers brush and you feel heat race up your spine. You haven’t even answered yet, bewildered and sluggish as you are. She does not wait, she’s pulling on the red ribbon that usually keeps her curls at bay and they spill out, golden waves cascading around her shoulders.  
She gets off the bed, pulls the chair out of the corner and drags it up near the lamp light. All you do is watch, the shears a heavy weight in your hand. She sits on the chair, her back straight and head lifted. 

“I want to cut it short…before the revolution starts.” There is no tremor or shake in her voice. She does not turn to look at you, instead staring straight into the wall. You walk slowly up to her, too afraid to touch her. Her hair is beautiful, even in the muted glow it shines like spun gold.

“Are you sure about this Enjolras?” Your voice sounds tiny, so reverent in the cozy space. She nods and it sends the light dancing about her tresses.  
You do not dive in straight with the scissors. Slowly, you run your fingers gently through her locks. You hold your breath as your fingers swirl about in her hair, combing out the tangles. You feel like you are about to drown in the heavy silence and the thick, faintly floral scent. She leans into your hands, letting out the smallest of sighs, a miniscule exhale of breath.

“Why did you ask me to do this? Why not Combferre?” you ready the shears. She shrugs, “Combeferre lacks the steady hands of an artist.” When she speaks next her words are very soft. 

“I would have done it myself, but I do not trust myself to do a good job of it.” You are holding one lock of that lovely gold in one hand, the other holds the scissors, blades parted around it, ready for the first snip. Deep inside, your head hisses ‘defiler’ over and over. 

“And you trust me?” you whisper into the silence, terrified of the answer. For a while the only sound is the soft flickering of the candle flame.  
“Yes.” She replies, her voice piercing in the quiet.   
Snip.

And the first tress tumbles to the ground, fallen. You start cutting in earnest now. The light catches silver blades and flashes of wheat-gold. Despite the nervous thrill you feel, your hands are sure in their actions and soon you are done.  
You lean back and set the scissors down. Enjolras exhales in a long sigh. You take a hesitant step back and watch her, Artemis seated on her throne, amidst a gilded sea. Slowly, slowly, slowly she lifts a hand to her head. She feels the back of her bare neck, runs elegant fingers through cropped curls.

“Is it alright?” you ask. She turns to you, eyes wide. And then she smiles. And you are suddenly lightheaded and dizzy.  
“It’s wonderful Grantaire. Thank you.” She stands, carefully shifting the chair to the side.   
“Thank you” she repeats as she steps closer to you. Her head is bowed, lips parted slightly as she reaches forward to gently place her hands on your shoulders.  
You are too intoxicated to move. You are Actaeon, bewitched and frozen. In any moment she will become the goddess again, shed her mortality in a burning blaze of fire. She’ll be angry with you. You’ve defiled her body with your fingers, sabotaged her with the shears, offended her with your gaze. You expect Artemis will strike you down in rage.

She does not. Instead her hands slip to tangle in your hair, grasp the back of your neck as she leans to press her forehead to yours. She burns you in white hot fire.   
“Is this alright? I mean-“ her voice trembles and you are shaking and you can feel the pads of her fingers scorching marks onto your skin.  
“-do you permit it?”

You give the smallest sigh, slip your arms around her waist and tilt your head up. She meets you halfway, lips moving and searing like sin against your own. You give in to the ecstasy of being consumed in the flame, burned at the stake as the two of you fit together, grasp at each other a midst the sea of shorn gold at your feet.


End file.
